


Cherry Lips

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Bono is a Little Shit, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26272306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Tenerife, 1991. Edge finds himself with a few thoughts relating to Bono and that outfit of his.
Relationships: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	Cherry Lips

**Author's Note:**

> ...let's not talk about this, shall we? It's just a little bit of fun with some artistic liberties, perhaps, and a very short chapter, but I shouldn't have even been writing it, so this will cure my insanity for a few days while I actually do homework and shit. And then we'll see about chapter 2. But let's not talk about this, nor about the photoshoot that inspired this. That's a lie. I always want to talk about that photoshoot. Title comes from Garbage, because it felt right xx

There were a lot of things to love about being in a rock band. The chance to do what they loved, for one thing, was pretty high up there. As was the extra money that went into the piggy bank. The very _large_ piggy bank, at this point.

Edge didn’t like to brag, but somewhere along the way, they had found themselves to be rolling in it. But that was neither here nor there, as, no matter how much success they had, there were still a few downfalls. And at the very top of that short list? The absolutely uncomfortable boredom that came with photoshoots.

Sure, Anton made it more bearable than most—and that was one of the reasons they kept him around, along with the constant reminder that being tall was, in fact, a possibility for people who were not members of U2. Reach for the stars, a wise man liked to say. With a little luck and a lot of wishful thinking, an extra couple of inches might very well be achieved. Although probably not.

But it was still a bit of a drag, photoshoots with Anton. An agonizing few hours that could have been better spent doing something worthwhile, like sleeping or fiddling with a guitar or watching the fucking grass grow in the backyard. No, Edge definitely was not a fan of photoshoots.

However, sometimes life could still surprise him. Contradict, even. Because, as it turned out, there was a way of making a day of picture taking an absolute blast.

And all they had to do was slip into a few frocks and attempt to get in touch with their feminine side (something that came easier to certain people than others). Laughs were had, skirts were lifted to cheekily flash, and somehow, _somehow_ they’d managed to make Larry smile despite his earlier misgivings about the entire thing. That smile had even turned into a gut-busting laugh when Bono had murdered the keys while attempting to play ‘Piano Man’, thankfully giving up after a long minute or so and instead singing an acapella version with various _women_ references being peppered throughout to replace the standard.

All in all, a successful—if a little mad—collaboration between Mr. Corbijn and U2, the oddness of the whole experience distracting Edge from certain other matters at hand.

Of course, he had noticed (how could he not?). More than once, he’d drawn his gaze up and down, an action that never took too long given Bono’s height (or lack thereof) and could thus be quickly and easily repeated. But it had been an _I could definitely work with this_ sort of appreciation, nothing more.

It wasn’t until they were wrapped for the day and Larry was in the bathroom wiping his makeup off and chatting to Paul while Adam made absolutely no move to get changed, that Edge stopped to really look at Bono. At the eyeliner that made his eyes pop, the blush that brought further attention to his cheekbones, and the pretty pink lips wrapped around a cigarillo in a way that was positively obscene. Edge could take or leave the platinum blonde wig as he'd always been a huge fan of what was going on beneath it. The outfit itself, however, was doing its part to create a very interesting thought within his ridiculous brain, one that announced itself in mere moments and steadfastly refused to be pushed aside.

“Something on your mind, Edge?” Bono asked without glancing over. He always knew when he was being watched. It was a talent that likely originated from paranoia (although could it be called paranoia when he was, in fact, constantly watched by everyone?), that had led to this whole wonderful mess between them in the first place. There was, as it turned out, only so many times a man could longingly stare at their best friend before said best friend threw in the towel, raised his eyebrow and asked a few questions.

“Not at all.”

“Not at all,” Bono mockingly parroted back without a single ounce of malice. His smile was close to knowing, that fucking eyebrow shooting up to say hello to God.

“You look really good.”

“Is that so?” His expression said he disagreed, but Bono wasn’t one to argue during such times. “So do you. All tarted up, showing off your sexy midriff. I bet all the boys in school will be kicking themselves knowing they turned down a chance to seduce such a pretty little thing.”

“We’re not talking about me here, Bono.”

“But you’re a far more interesting subject to discuss at this present moment.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes. Yes, I truly do.”

“You really think I’m buying you shooting down a chance to talk about yourself?”

Bono gave him a look, one that held about five percent malice. Who knew? If they kept on going as they were, eventually a throttling could take place. “How dare you? I will not sit here and be accused of narcissism, Edge, I refuse!”

“So you’re going to leave then?”

Briefly, Bono thought the question through, with the devilish smile that appeared providing an answer before he could even think to open that mouth of his. “I think _you_ should leave. You know, so I can watch you walk away. I’m curious to see whether that skirt will ride up as you move.”

It wouldn’t. Edge knew from experience and was dimly thankful to have picked such an outfit. Although could he really be relieved when the skirt was so short in the first place that he practically already was on show? “That’s so funny, B, I was going to say the exact same thing about you.”

“I am still here, by the way,” Adam spoke up from across the room. “In case you’ve both forgotten.”

Edge had. Though it wasn’t because he didn’t love Adam. No, he was merely . . . distracted. Distantly, he remembered there were other people in this place. Anton was somewhere, he supposed. Maybe with the beauty team responsible for this wonderful mess. But did Edge care? Fuck no. They were completely forgotten, the whole lot of them.

“Oh, we could never forget about you, Adam,” Bono insisted, his voice like smoke. “Especially not at this present moment. You look like you should be writhing around on top of a piano. Doesn’t he look like he belongs on top of a piano, The Edge?”

“I suppose,” Edge muttered, causing Adam to smirk and playfully preen in front of the mirror. “I’ve given it very little thought, if I’m to be honest.”

“Yeah. Like Michelle Pfeiffer did in that film,” Bono said thoughtfully. “What was that film called again?”

“The Fabulous Baker Boys?”

“Mmm. We could do a duet, me on the ivory, you doing your thing. Up for it, Clayton?”

“My thinking is that perhaps Edge should play the piano, while you do the singing,” Adam replied. “Though I certainly won’t give up a chance to emulate Michelle Pfeiffer.”

“And why would you?” Bono asked, smiling as he turned back to Edge and sang, “For makin’ _whoooopieee_.”

“Brilliant. Very erotic.”

“You think so, Edge?”

“Definitely. Maybe you should be the one on top of the piano?” Edge suggested.

“Then what would Adam be doing?”

“I’ve not really thought that far ahead.”

“He could watch?”

“Could I?” Adam asked with a faux leer.

“Definitely not,” Edge said, simultaneously.

In response, Bono blew out a stream of smoke, shrugged, then laughed. “Never took you for a prude, but okay. Sorry ‘bout that. I’ll conform to the Disney crowd from now on. Not a single lewd joke will pass these virtuous lips.”

“I don’t think you could call me a prude, B,” Edge said, paying no heed to the rest of the bullshit being spouted his way. “Not with the sort of thoughts that bounce around my head sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Bono stubbed out his smoke, his smile curious and utterly alluring. “What times?”

“Oh, here and there.”

“Right now?”

“I might have a few thoughts, yes.”

“Hmm.”

A loud exhale cut through the room, the two of them glancing up just in time to see Adam turn on his heel. “I’ve had my fill of this,” he explained with a grin, and while he gestured to his dress, Edge had a feeling _this_ referred to them. After all, it often did. The two of them watched Adam leave before turning to face each other once more.

“Something on your mind, Edge?”

“You look good.” Slowly, Edge dragged his eyes up and down Bono’s body, certain that would do the trick. Didn’t it always? “You look really fucking good.”

And just like that, Bono had his number implicitly, although all he said was, “So you keep saying.”

“It’s the truth. I’m in absolutely no hurry to have you wash your face or lose the skirt.”

“Have you considered I might hold similar opinions toward you and your current look?”

“Oh no, I’ll definitely be changing,” Edge insisted. “And wiping off my makeup. Taking the wig off too.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Not at all.”

“I think I should get a _little_ say in it. I am, after all, the more macho one of the two.”

It was something that Bono said, from time to time, words he strongly believed. And maybe there was some truth in it, but Edge had always thought (though he rarely dared to say it) that Bono had a number of elements which could be labelled as . . . not quite so macho. Skewing toward delicate. Not that all women were delicate, just as not all men were hard, and that was perfectly fine. People were people and forcing roles upon them was something that neither he nor Bono really liked to do. However, that never stopped Bono from seeing himself in a certain way. Never mind that he was extremely comfortable doing some things that went against his definition of the word _macho_.

“That’s what makes it so appealing,” Edge said instead of arguing against Bono’s masculinity. He knew better than to ask for trouble. And he knew exactly how Bono’s mind worked. How a bit of role-play—especially the type that went against the norm—turned him into a complete and utter tart. “And I know how much you relish putting on a performance.”

“Well, Edge,” Bono started, seemingly without knowing how to finish his thought. His smile, however, spoke volumes. Hook, line and sinker. “I can’t just walk out of here in a frock, you know. The wig I might be able to get away with, but—”

“You can leave the wig,” Edge cut in. “I much prefer your hair.”

“I’d have thought the wig might make the charade more believable.”

“Your hair is plenty long enough.”

“To pull off looking like a woman?”

“It’s not about—”

“I’ve never felt so emasculated in my life,” Bono muttered, yet he was still grinning.

“The day is still young, B. Give me time, I’m sure I can chip away at your apparent manliness until there’s nothing left.”

“You’re a complete motherfucker, you know that?”

“And you’ve got an attitude problem.”

“Fucking right, I do.”

“And a big mouth . . . for such a pretty little thing.” Edge wasn’t as smooth as Bono; he couldn’t say such words and have them land quite as well. But it didn’t matter. They still managed to make their mark. “If only there were some way to shut you up.”

Bono’s only response came in the form of a kiss being blown, the pursing of his pink lips making Edge want to give up on all that was decent and holy and go for it right then and there. But somehow, _somehow_ he managed to resist temptation.

No one could ever accuse Edge of being a weak man. Not after so many years of acting like a fucking saint when Bono was concerned. Although, these days, his supposed saintliness only applied when there were prying eyes and ears.

Behind closed doors, Edge was a fucking deviant.


End file.
